


Of Painkillers and Stressful Nights Out

by LimitedMorality (pikagioma)



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Crack Treated Seriously, Dirty Talk, Does this qualify as, Drunken Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magic, Resolved Sexual Tension, loki is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 21:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20014939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikagioma/pseuds/LimitedMorality
Summary: Stephen just wants a goddamn drink. He thinks he deserves it, with everything he has to deal with on a daily basis.Instead, he gets a snarky stranger with unusually green eyes to verbally humiliate him in front of a crowd.aka: Stephen is Stressed, the fanfic.





	Of Painkillers and Stressful Nights Out

Heavy footfalls resonate in the empty alley, setting a hurried tempo to the rushing cars and many voices that could be heard in the distance.

New York has never been a quiet city, and this night has proven up to par with its usual standard, or what would constitute one if the word ‘usual’ pertained to it. Between aliens, demonic presences, and cosmic beings joining the foray, it's honestly a miracle that the planet still stands at all—and on the best of days, magic isn’t involved in the slightest.

It’s somehow reassuring to know Stephen isn’t needed as much as the Avengers, really. He’d take fighting an army over dealing with multiversal forces any day, just to avoid the damn paperwork that he has to file back at the Sanctum, now that Kamar-Taj is part of the Accords. With Wong fussing over him like a mother hen every time he comes back from a particularly tiring altercation, it all just spells stressing-the-wizard-out.

Like today, when after he finished providing SHIELD with yet another set of magic wards to try and keep Amora away, knowing fully well that the sorceress won't be stopped if not by bribery, or giving her what she wants—in her case, Thor, which is most unfortunate because the mage isn’t particularly fond of either and would rather like to off two birds with one stone— and decided to retire to his home as he saw Fury approaching him with a single-minded glare, he was oh-so-welcomed by the shorter man who had insisted he let the healers assist him over a literal scrape, the kind children get when they fall over. On another occasion, he would feel touched by his concern. Right then he just wanted to clock him in the nose and portal out of there.

He has just barely managed to keep himself from doing the first.

So this is why Stephen finds himself wandering in seedy back alleys at an ungodly hour, cloakless in his haste, hoping that his ragged attire—still scorched and ripped from the day’s fight—will be enough to keep any potential muggers well away from him. He usually refrains from using his powers on humans, as they’re weaker and more vulnerable to spiritual attacks, but tonight he could actually snap enough to cause lasting damage.

… He needs a drink. Scratch that, make it several.

A sigh escapes him as he considers his options. As much as he’d like to just sit down at a bar and enjoy some good scotch, he doesn’t want to risk acting out while drunk and leading to the aforementioned result, so most of the places he’s a regular at daily are off the list. There could be a way to avoid accidental mind-melding if he finds an empty enough establishment, but the mage doesn’t have it in him to stay up and search for any more time than he absolutely needs. That just leaves him with option Z.

Stephen brings a shaky hand up to scrub at his temple, feeling the beginning of a headache hammer inside his skull. Generally, he avoids that place like the plague—especially ever since the Scarlet Witch and he got into an… animated discussion. Plus, the place is always awkwardly filled with people and he knows at least half of the regulars, with them being coworkers and all. The fact that the bartender hates his guts and would probably enjoy seeing them on the wall along with the countless others already there is just the cherry on top, really, and yet one more reason not to go there. But he’s tired, and shivery, and he just wants a damn drink, so Stephen defeatedly leans against the damp— _ew_ —concrete wall beside him and closes his eyes, sending out a request to be allowed in.

After ten minutes of fidgeting and debating on whether it would be easier to just head back to the Sanctum and suffer through Wong’s mother tendencies, and almost giving in, he feels the familiar creeping sensation of being teleported, and reopens his eyes to the chaotic mess that is the Bar with No Doors—a mystery even among the magical community, with its bizarre method of transportation and the even more bizarre clientele. Stephen can already make out the familiar profiles of Brother Voodoo and Chondu talking at their usual table and the bartender—that has so far refused to give out a name for himself—eyeing the other various patrons with a nonplussed expression that is probably his default setting.

The Sorcerer sighs again and tries to blend in with the crowd, and with all sorts of burning paraphernalia hanging about it’s actually not that hard. The air smells way worse than burnt human here, the flashy costumes paraded around helping make his appearance even more inconspicuous, and he reaches the bar with no difficulty, plopping down on a creaking stool and asking for a Painkiller—no better way to ease headaches and get adequately smashed at the same time.

Blessing his temporary good luck, Stephen starts looking around to determine which side to face to hide him better from his peers among the patrons, not counting the ones already drunk enough to fall on their faces, and he glimpses a shock of pale red hair in the far corner of the room, where most of the burning stench is coming from. The individual doesn’t seem the usual kind of regular with the way he’s basically sprawled in his chair, feet on the table and all. The flickering lights are dim enough to make identification almost impossible, but Stephen can see that he isn’t alone. 

There’s someone sitting primly right opposite him, dressed in green leather and a small golden… tiara? around their head gesturing animatedly with dramatic movements, clearly invested in the story they’re telling. This time, recognition is made difficult by long black hair covering the side of their face, fluttering and undulating almost prettily with each rise and fall of hands—that have black polish on them? At some point, their laughter joins in with the other’s, the sound echoing until it reaches his ears—and it’s not unpleasant at all.

Stephen shakes his head and goes back to observing the first guy, who is undoubtedly the one he should look out for the most. Right at that moment, a nearby cauldron—what is the manager doing, for the love of Vishanti—fizzles to life and momentarily lights up half the room, more than enough for the mage to finally see the man’s face-

-and _shit_ , is that Daimon Hellstrom?

Immediately, mild panic sets in. What is the son of Satan doing in this place? What are his intentions? While it’s true that they’ve fought together before, Daimon has always been a somewhat volatile individual, and his history with the Avengers isn’t exactly spotless. Glancing behind him, he can see how even the bartender is subtly trying to keep an eye on him.

Knocking back his drink and ignoring the burn as it goes down his throat, Stephen places the glass on the counter, drawing his attention and nodding slightly, trying to convey that he’d take care of any situation, should it arise. The keeper looks back, unphased, and then returns to serving another client.

So much for trying to keep the peace, the mage thinks bitterly. Unfortunately, a little antagonistic behaviour isn’t enough to warrant ignoring his duties—so Stephen has little choice but to turn around and face the demon.

Who is now very intently looking back at him. Shit. And it seems like his companion has also changed his object of interest for the night, fixing two narrowed green slits on him, studying him with focused intent—Stephen can now see they're male. The lights hanging overhead cast soft shadows across his face, but the high cheekbones and thin lips are unmistakable, sharp features that betray their expressiveness in the raised eyebrow mockingly asking: “ _So. How is this going to go?_ ”

The fact that the stranger is unfairly good-looking—and probably a lot like his type—is not helping Stephen decide quickly.

In the end, a misplaced sense of duty and, mostly, the drink he has knocked back before convince him to swallow down his nerves and push away from the counter, making his way through the crowded tables with far less grace than he should present himself with. From the corner of his eye, he catches the two exchanging an amused glance. He feels his stomach plummet accordingly—this is probably not going to end well for him.

As he stumbles towards them, Stephen holds the green-eyed stare and conveys all his determination to go through with this, receiving a teasing smirk in return. This being-

Ah, damn. This calls for improvisation—he’s too tired to stop and reflect that this is a really stupid course of action, and he’s here now, anyways.

“Hellstrom. What are you doing here.” Charming, really. What should come out as a question sounds more like a bark, and it only succeeds in making the demon cackle.

“Strange. What the Hell are _you_ doing? You drunk?” He almost parrots back at him, and it succeeds perfectly in riling him up.

“So what. Answer the question, or else-“

“Or else _what_ , Sorcerer? You gonna magic me away? How terrifying. Hell is shaking right now.”

Stephen clenches his fists, barely containing himself. While it’s true that his powers have diminished greatly, he isn’t about to stand there and be parodied by some Hell-spawn punk. “Listen here, you little-“

“Now, now,” a deep, drawling voice intervenes, and the mage realises the green-clad man still hadn't spoken, till now. He is gesturing again, empathically including his companion, and Stephen’s temper despite everything is calmed by the steady movement. “My friend and I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, Doctor, we were simply enjoying a night out, as it’s seldom in our realm of possibilities to dedicate our time to leisure rather than work. Our respective Realms tend to constrain us more often than not, you see. If I may ask, what prompted you to visit us? Or were you simply looking for another way to release your quite obvious stress?”

Stephen can only blink, taken aback by the other’s politeness in contrast to Hellstrom’s behaviour. He can see him snickering from the corner of his eye, and he decides that he needs to at least try to save face, even though the urge to just ogle at the stranger is strong—the guy is handsome as Hel. He would know, he’s talked with her before.

“It happens that this guy,” he says pointing his thumb at the demon, “has crossed paths with other heroes and me in the past, and hasn’t exactly been... forthcoming, in either of the occasions. Also, I didn’t catch your name, and I don’t think this has anything to do with you.” 

Stephen watches, rapt, as a grin starts to spread on the other’s face. What he assumed to be a helm of some sort are actually a couple of small golden horns, that should look tacky but give him an almost regal air. His eyes light up with glee and a fair amount of mischief, and his whole face goes with it, nose scrunching and brow arching, the pale skin of his cheeks tinged pale pink—and then his shoulders shaking slightly as if he's laughing at some sort of joke-

_Damn_. Stephen cannot lie to himself—the guy is adorable, and that probably makes him emotionally compromised, but to Hell with it.

“What’s so funny,” he barks irritatingly, crossing his arms with what he hopes is a scowl, but probably resembles more of a pout.

“Oh, nothing at all, Doctor- it is merely the alluring combination of seeing you drunk and vexed enough to threaten other patrons, without a valid excuse to do so in the first place,” there is more laughter, louder this time, but Stephen stalls at his words. Has he rushed things? Yes, definitely. Can he be justified in any way? Well, aside from his borderline paranoia—which probably is less rightful than he thought, actually—his concern stems from past experiences and old memories, so it is perfectly normal for a concerned patron who only wants some peace and quiet to barge into a conversation between an ex-criminal and-

Hold on. Did he just say _alluring_?

Some of his thought process must show on his face, because now Hellstrom is cackling as well, and more than a couple heads have turned to not-so-subtly glance at the situation. From his own peripheral he can see the bartender himself staring at him with a curious expression on his face.

Great. Just, great.

“Dude! You look like you’ve swallowed a whole lemon, chill,” the demon manages to splutter, and his companion doubles over on their table, letting out quiet bursts of breath that from anybody else would have been rather ungraceful snorts, “we weren’t gonna call you out anyway, you’re way funnier when you don’t look like you have a stick up your ass. But please, do continue… whatever you’re supposed to be doing, I guess."

“D-Daimon, please don’t antagonise him too much…”

“Not my fault, dear. He was born with it.”

“You are perfectly right, but still,” a shit-eating grin spreads wide on the guy's face, and Stephen curses how it makes his eyes shine all the brighter, "we must remain civil in any situation, so we can set an example for the less mature-“

At that, he really cannot be blamed for the way his magic snaps around him, orange sparks flaring to life and lighting everything up in a luminescent glow. There are circles of flaring light rounds his wrists, his hands are quaking uncomfortably, and he can feel his face heat up all the way to his neck. Stephen doesn’t really know what expression he’s making right now, but judging by the pair's rapidly freezing expressions he either appears a train wreck or ready to commit mass slaughter—and neither option bodes well for them. 

Clearly, horned-guy notices this, because in a split second he grabs the other’s wrist and teleports out of the Bar. Huh. Which means he was a fellow mage—not surprising, seeing his choice of dwelling, but it is one more thing to know about the nameless stranger. Who had an intrigued air about him as he grabbed Hellstrom to flee his supposed righteous wrath, even though there was less than nothing righteous about it.

Not that it actually matters, in the face of imminent doom as he feels the bartender approach from behind—and realises he just lost his temper in front of two teenagers. There are other patrons laughing not-so-subtly at him now, and Stephen swears he can hear something that sounds suspiciously like the _tick-tick_ of several phones tapping away on their respective SN.

_Shit._

He didn’t mean to come back here, not after last time’s fiasco and subsequent embarrassment that lasted for the entirety of the past month. It’s been... harrowing, trying to escape the constant jokes and derision coming from his colleagues. Furthermore, memories of the gorgeous stranger have crept up on him more often than not, and not all of those moments have been in… appropriate settings. He has lost count of how many dreams ha’s had starring the man. 

Stephen has seemingly found a new objective in life. That is, let the ground swallow him whole—and stay there, since he could teleport out of it.

But alas, he still begrudgingly finds himself being teleporting to the Bar—this time, in an effort to avoid being involved in an Avengers’ debrief, and he has the faint suspicion that he’s not the only one who would have liked to escape, from Stark’s eye-rolls alone. It seems most of his life decisions lately are the result of trying to escape either his responsibilities, or the people tasked with making him respect them.

He can’t honestly say that he’s proud of himself, but it won’t kill him to be a little more negligent than usual, with all the actual work he’s been doing lately trying to escape his treacherous mind.

Opening his eyes to the bizarre room, slightly less claustrophobic than last time, he wastes no time in approaching the keeper, who levels an amused glance at him—that means he cannot fall any lower, surely. When he passes Stephen a Painkiller without being asked, the mage knows this time he’s totally screwed up, and become a regular in the process.

Cursing under his breath, he distractedly nurses his drink for a while, taking care to notice when the buzz in his head becomes too much to handle and his hands tend to become more unsteady than usual—he certainly doesn’t want a repeat performance of last time. Although, it seems unlikely to happen anyway, since neither of them is here today—

And it takes no less time than the thought forming in his mind, that he hears someone taking the seat next to him, and a suspiciously familiar drawl call out to him.

_Stephen, you should really stop skipping those fucking meetings_ , the Fates almost sing-song to him.

“Stephen Strange?”

“Doctor,” he hisses automatically, “at least do me the courtesy of respecting my title, if nothing else.”

“But _Doctor_ Stephen Strange,” the green-clad individual says with emphasis on his title and a mocking tone dripping sarcasm, “if I recall this correctly, you were the one who so rudely interrupted our little meeting last time, and I don’t remember being anything other than polite towards you—in fact, wasn’t it you who-“

“Oh, fine, get yourself a beer or whatever you want,” he grinds out as he stands and moves to a free booth far into the room and from prying eyes, not bothering to check if the other’s following because he knows he will.

Case in point, right as he takes his seat he hears the other chair being dragged out and then under the table again, and he is suddenly vis-à-vis with the handsome stranger holding a medium beer that has possibly ruined his reputation among the entire magical community. The outcry hasn't been worse than he expected (people being appalled at something he did, nothing new on the Western Front) but the sheer number of people not knowing who he snapped at did most of the job.

“So? What is it?”

“Either you have an exceptionally bad temperament, or I have the uncanny ability to find you on your worst days.”

“A bit of both,” Stephen deadpanned, “somehow I’m inclined to believe you do it on purpose.”

“Me? I would never. I far too much enjoy seeing you like this to spoil my own fun, Doctor."

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Mh. You are aware that this is not a business arrangement, yes?”

“And you’re still not answering, so now I’m beginning to suspect you have major ulterior motives regarding me.”

At this, the green-clad man looks taken aback. “Well, yes? It is me after all, that is mostly how I behave,” he narrows his eyes when he doesn’t get a reaction past the slight lift of an eyebrow. “You… don’t know who I am?”

“Listen, I’ve met more sorcerers in my life than I can honestly remember,” he ignores the indignant ’sorcerer!?’ spluttered out amidst the beer bubbles, “and even though you clearly stand out among the rest, I could have been busy battling _Cthulhu_ at that time and didn’t look your way, or something along those lines, so please, to keep at least this one conversation civil, do me the favour of introducing yourself before I really give in to the temptation of jumping into the Dark Dimension from shame.”

Well. That could have honestly gone worse, as far as attempts at asking for somebody’s name go.

There is a moment of silence where the other seems to contemplate which part of Stephen’s speech to tackle first, and he takes the opportunity to try and drown himself in his drink. He finishes it just as the man speaks again, and he almost chokes when he looks back at him.

“May I ask exactly how I ‘ _clearly stand out from the rest_ ’?” The question is asked with the biggest, single most infuriating smirk playing on his lips, and Stephen just about smashes his head on the table because, why. Why did he have to say something like that to a guy who’s obviously good with words, and similarly, why did he have to notice it in the rest of the blabbering?

One painkiller won’t be enough to keep the incoming headache away, but Stephen can’t afford to get drunk while tying to navigate already dangerous waters.

“Not if you don’t tell me your name first,” he mutters staring determinedly at something right above the other’s shoulder.

A chuckle. “That is fair, I suppose,” the pint is set down on the table with a soft clink, and when Stephen looks back at him, the stranger looks almost proud of himself. “I have many names, ranging from God of Stories to Satan, back in the 40s, because people had a lot more imagination back then, but you may refer to me as Loki,” he winked, “if it doesn’t irritate you past your standard and makes you threaten me like last time, that is.”

“Me? I would never,” he parrots back, still deadpan, and the laughter that manages to elicit is enough to warrant a small smile. “Although, Satan? Isn’t that a bit...”

“As I said, people were way more gullible once. You presented them with, say, experiments on cloned animals, and suddenly you were a substitute for Mephisto! Especially the religious ones, those were a real joy to trick.”

“I was going to say ironic, since you were hanging out with his son last time I saw you, but thank you for the historical insight.”

Stephen mulls over the information. Then the metaphorical lightbulb flicks on inside his brain and he snaps his fingers with a satisfied grin taking over his face.

“You’re the Trickster, God of Mischief! I knew those horns were somehow important.”

Again, the only emotion visible on the man’s— _Loki’s_ —face is confused surprise as if he didn’t expect the connection, but he is quick to recover behind his amused facade.

“Indeed I am. I must confess that it is quite refreshing to see someone knows me by something other than my familial links.” Ah, that’s what that was. “Now, as per your request, Dr Strange, I gave you my name,” he leans forward, teeth gleaming in the dim lights, “I ask you respect your side of the bargain. That is what you are good at, right? Stories of your encounter with Dormammu circulate often even among my people, so forgive me if I’m hopelessly curious about how could I, a mere Trickster God, have attracted the attention of the _alluring_ Sorcerer Supreme.”

Just like that, he has cornered him, and damn if those words aren’t meant as a tease. ‘Attracted’ sounds about right, but has he really been that transparent? He sure as Hell isn’t going to confirm that for him. But ‘alluring’? Could he...

He internally shakes his head. If Stephen neglects to answer him, he would make a fool out of himself even more than he already has, and he would be breaking a bargain, or oath, an action that in his line of work almost equates to a crime. On the other hand, if he answers honestly… well. The truth is never the best thing to lay bare to others, not so directly—so Stephen opts for the next best option.

“I think it was your unusual magical signature that caught my attention,” he nods emphatically, trying to mask his lie as best as he can, “after all, like you said, you are a God. There are some discrepancies between your magic and those of a Midgardian sorcerer, and with me being attuned to most, I must have sensed-“

He is startled into silence by a nearly hysterical bout of laughter, one that seems to visibly take a lot out of Loki not to sprawl on the ground. The mage is holding his midsection with both hands, nearly wheezing as air fails to circulate in his lungs, and his cheeks dot a pretty shade of pink. _Damn_.

“Oh, Stephen,” Loki drawls with the roughest, most amused voice he has heard from him yet, and his insides are squirming in a way that he doesn’t know how to stop from translating to his whole body. It occurs to Stephen that this is the first time Loki has said his name without any sort of mocking intent, and he wants to hear more. “You really don’t know me, do you?”

Suddenly, there’s a hand around his neck, supporting, not pressing, gently tilting his head backwards so that his eyes are forced to land on Loki’s green ones, and if he didn’t know any better he would say that the God is _glowing_ with badly-repressed glee. Stephen cannot help his gasp as the other smirks down at him, and he _knows_.

“I have many names,” Loki repeats, softer this time, clearly just for the two of them, “I am always me, but different interpretations of what people need me to be. I don’t change, never, but people accommodate their vision of myself as it better fulfils their needs—there was a time, back when people of the North called themselves Vikings,” he tilts his head, lowers his lashes, and Stephen’s headache is decidedly put in the back burner compared to the intense _want_ sweeping through him, “when I was both feared and venerated, when worship was never too little nor too much, when I still had many titles, but when the one, true moniker I received at birth from the Norns themselves was always used.”

The Sorcerer’s throat feels dry, but he can’t swallow due to the barely-there touch of the hand on his neck. If he gets any more, he’ll be completely lost. His eyes roam across the other’s face, all lightly flushed skin and shameless amusement, and they catch the tip of his rosy tongue sweeping across his bottom lip, snakelike. _Oh_.

“Silvertongue, the God of Lies,” he whispers, a trembling hand coming up to grab the God’s wrist, holding on with a feeling unlike awe bubbling up inside him. The green eyes pinning him in his place are blazing fire, unrestrained chaos that has seen more than he could ever hope to, and they tell stories Stephen never wants to end. Just like that, he knows that the pretty man with polite speech that chewed him out a month ago is so much more than what he appears. “You are _fascinating_ ,” he tells him, watching the flame burn all the brighter, and thinks that he wouldn’t mind if it consumed him as well.

“You are a dangerous man, Dr Stephen Strange,” Loki purrs deep in his chest, and the man can feel it all the way to his bones, “dangerous and so very, very interesting. Clever, yes, and with enough on your plate that you cannot help but wonder when it will all end, and as an Agent of Ragnarök I can tell you, we have a long ways to go before the Winter even begins.” The hand on his neck moves up to cradle his jaw, joined by another, and the thumbs sweeping across his cheeks make his eyes flutter closed. “I just might entertain myself watching how your story plays out, but for the time being I’d rather like to pick you apart and see how that magic of yours works, and how much you restrain yourself to not wipe away the larger part of your problems with a flick of your wrist.”

“Likewise,” Stephen presses slightly into the hold, breathless, watching the other from barely cracked eyelids, “you must be so very bored, from what you’ve told me about your ‘work’, and given your nature I can only imagine the things you concoct to distract yourself from wreaking havoc across the Nines. I would hate to find myself at the receiving end of that boredom, but perhaps we can come to an arrangement of sorts.”

“Mmh,” Loki hums, delighted, fingers twitching on the sides of his face, “and what do you propose, then?”

At that, Stephen cannot hold still anymore. He rises from his seat, robes moving fluidly with him, and leans forward enough to feel the startled gasp warm his face—now the hands that slip upward are his, albeit trembling, but he applies a steady pressure as they skim over his shoulders and Loki doesn’t seem to mind it that much.

“I think I would like to distract you, intimately, as long as you would allow me, until I understand you better than anyone else. I want to see you, all of you, because from the first moment I saw you I’ve wanted to lay my, although a bit lacking, hands on you, and you have no idea how I spent this past month trying to not go crazy over those eyes and generally anything of yours, because I thought ‘why would he be interested in a fucking cripple when he’s like _that_ ’—so now that we’ve made our respective desire clear, I _propose_ we change location and get to ravish each other, right now, if you please.”

Stephen almost doesn’t get to finish his hurried sentence that Loki scrambles out of his seat—is that a _blush_?—and latches onto the lapels of his midnight blue tunic, a bit urgently. He doesn’t need to say much more when he opens a glowing orange portal to his rooms in the Sanctum and the mage all but drags him through it, and he barely remembers to close it as a mouth latches on the column of his throat.

With the amount of noise they make, Stephen is quite relieved that he had the foresight of cast a silencing spell of the walls during his earlier days as a Sorcerer.

The next time he steps back into the Bar with No Doors, it is to the sight of Hellstrom and Loki chatting amiably at what he assumes is their usual spot. As soon as he’s spotted, Daimon grins like a shark and beckons him over, while Loki turns and waves at him sheepishly.

Stephen makes a beeline for the counter, straight up snatches the Painkiller from the bartender’s hands, and marches to the couple laughing behind his back.

Seems like there is no Dimension where he gets to enjoy one goddamn evening without having a splitting headache threatening his sanity, but oh well. He thinks it might be worth it when Loki’s hand lands possessively over his thigh, hidden by the table, and then he proceeds to rant for a good twenty minutes about Asgard’s policies regarding ‘family dinners’ and why they all should go to Hel. Daimon just laughs and tells him to come visit his Father’s version of Hell sometime, which Loki politely declines.

He could get used to this, in fact.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, and thank you for reading this far!
> 
> so, this is a little thing that has been festering in my files for a week or so, and I thought it would have been nice to actually finish it. you know, while procrastinating on my other fic. *sweats*  
> in this, I borrowed a lot of people and little bits of info from the comics, but I kind of changed around a couple of things regarding the bar, because artistic licence, sue me. that being said, I wanted to write these two for a while, so I'm happy I finally had the chance to.
> 
> 'nothing new on the Western Front' is a reference to Erich Maria Remarque's book, 'All Quiet on the Western Front'.
> 
> oh btw, if any of y'all want to, I don't know, talk ships or discuss the clusterfuck that is the mcu, [here](https://roombasdump.tumblr.com) is my tumblr. knock yourselves out ;)


End file.
